


Strange as Angels

by Argyle



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Crossdressing, Domestic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the warm comfy futon of his soul, Rory always believed the universe was a normal sort of place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange as Angels

When it comes down to it, Earth is a very normal sort of planet.

It's the type of place where usual things happen, like holdups on the M-5, and toast which invariably falls butter side down, and love, of the standard kind, between regular varieties of people.

Rory Williams is _that_. And he and Amy Pond are this: in love. In the classic way.

At least this is what Rory has always believed, with instinct, in the warm comfy futon of his soul.

But as luck would have it, the rest of the universe is not so predictable.

*

"There's a swimming pool," says Amy, the first real night they have together aboard the TARDIS. Which is to say, the first night they're not panicked and running from some creature that really, honestly should not to exist. And Amy seems happy enough even without that adrenaline, tucked into Rory's shoulder, stretched out on her bed. "And there's a _huge_ library. You'll probably find every book in the galaxy in there somewhere."

Rory arches a brow. " _A Boy's Own Guide to Firestarting_?" he suggests.

"Okay, and _why_ would you want that?"

With practiced ease, Rory slides a hand up Amy's stockinged thigh, bunching her skirt by her hips. "I can't say," he says. "But I'll show you."

"You're so corny," says Amy.

It's a weak comeback. They both know it.

Rory kisses her before she can think up anything better.

*

Later, Rory sends a sated glance about Amy's room without lifting his head from her side, and indeed without disentangling himself from her at all. But he ventures, "Why this room? If there's a thousand to choose from, why this?"

The room in question is smaller than her room at home, but laid out in much the same way -- bed, bureau, desk. But it also has a well-curtained window that Rory suspects doesn't look out onto any sort of yard, unkempt or no.

Part of him wishes she'd picked a room that was something out of _Star Trek_ : blinking, beeping LCD panels on the walls, computer consoles, perhaps some spacey artwork. One of those machines that gives you a nice cuppa whenever you want.

But this is, for lack of a better word, _familiar_.

"I didn't pick it," says Amy.

"And I suppose it's by coincidence that it's across the hall from the canteen?"

"Yes."

"And two doors down from the arboretum?"

" _Yes_."

"Well," says Rory. "That's a bit of luck."

*

Amy's room is also quite close to the wardrobe, wardrobe here being a slight understatement, because apparently the Doctor had been in the habit of scooping up the entire Debenhams sales floor on a yearly basis from 1856 onward.

Interspersed throughout were various pieces of historical garb: a full samurai uniform, frock coats and breeches, and papal robes, along with countless other pieces he couldn't actually describe.

"What d'you suppose he _does_ with all this?" Rory asks, thumbing a silk kimono sleeve.

Amy pulls a legionnaire's tunic from the rack, inspects it, then puts it back. "We're in a time machine, Rory," she says. "Fitting in a thousand years before you were born is hard enough. Don't you think it might be helpful to have some clothes to match whatever era we land in?"

"So I suppose you've worn one of _these_ when visiting sixteenth century Vienna?"

But the ballgown is too heavy and cumbersome to reasonably pull out.

Amy notices. "Have you ever had to run at full tilt from a fummilaxian tigersnake while wearing thirty pounds of ruffle and brocade? One slip and it's bye-bye Pond."

"So I'll take that as a no," says Rory. He smiles. "So which of these things _have_ you worn into the wild?"

It turns out that Amy hadn't worn any of them.

Rory should be frightened by the bright, conspiratorial look that realization brings to Amy's face. But he's used to it.

*

"London, 1866," says Amy.

The Doctor sniffs, not turning from the console. "You know I don't take requests."

"It's my birthday," Amy presses.

"Oh?" The Doctor turns to Rory, half-frowning. "Is it?"

"No," Rory agrees. And then, dodging a second jab of Amy's elbow in his side: "Unless it's something to do with... Um." He searches the grated TARDIS floor for an answer. "The space-time continuum," he finishes lamely.

"Oh ho, that's a new line." Now the Doctor is frowning fully. "I've not heard that one before. Ever."

Then he looks at Amy. Or, he actually sees her.

His expression melts like ice cream on a July afternoon. Rory suspects the Doctor has practiced this in front of a mirror, and that he probably looks forward to the occasions he can bring it out.

This time it's because Amy has somehow managed to outfit herself as a chimney sweep. Although with a little more soot, she could possibly also pull off a credible street urchin.

She's tucked her hair into her black cap, and it's neat but for the few short wisps which sit loose at the nape of her neck. The rest of her clothes -- jacket, slacks, and boots -- are also black. She looks paler than usual, slender, but sturdy. Definitely boyish, though the tight wool of her trousers curves round her arse in a deliciously suggestive way.

"Rory?" Amy catches his eye. "You all right?"

"Yeah," Rory manages.

"Well!" The Doctor is ever one for silence. In a moment, he's moving back round the console, pressing here, pulling there. "Now you mention it, I do seem to remember something about that."

Amy crosses her arms. "About what?"

"The almost -- sort of -- _wibbly_ nature of birthdays," says the Doctor. Then the looks at Rory. "What about you? Care to join Oliver Pond and I on what will undoubtedly be as good a romp as the good old city ever knew?"

Rory doesn't care much for Dickens -- in his opinion, brevity is the domain of kings.

So he leaves it at this: "Yeah."

*

Unsurprisingly, "London, 1866" is a relative notion.

But at least Rory acquires firsthand knowledge of what it's like to run at full tilt from a fummilaxian tigersnake. It isn't exactly something for his CV, but in the grand scheme of things, few things are.

*

"Wait," Rory says, later. They're back in the TARDIS. Safe and sound, like always (this thought makes his stomach churn). "Amy, hold on."

Amy does. She turns around. Rummages through her pockets.

Meets Rory's eye.

"What?"

Rory takes her by the hand and leads her back through the halls that he still has difficulty navigating; she doesn't protest. And this is a blessing. Rory knows that if it came down to it, he wouldn't be too proud to beg.

 _Amy, let's go home._

As though home is enough for her, now. Or as though it ever had been.

But since he's known about this -- the Doctor and the TARDIS and the whole fucking _vastness_ of life -- every time Amy steps out on some unfamiliar ground, Rory gets the stuffing scared out of him. Because he knows that there may come a time (he can't admit to _will_ ) when something happens.

It isn't easy for him to know that the best thing he can do is stay by her.

They go back to Amy's room.

Gently, as gently as he's able, he takes her cap off, releasing her hair in a cascade about her shoulders. There's a grimy line of demarcation at her temples where the band rested. The rest of her face is just as splotched with dirt. But her eyes are so, so bright.

"Well now, Rory," Amy says, running her hands down Rory's back to pull his shirt from his trousers. "I saw the way you were looking at me back there. Has someone been harboring a schoolboy fetish all this time?"

"Don't be silly. Can't a man admire his darling intended?"

She laughs a little at that, sticking her tongue out in exaggerated disgust.

Then she presses, "But do you like me, like this?"

"No," says Rory. And then: "Yes. Well, I like you _alive_."

(Amy's scarf hits the floor.)

"Hmm. I suppose that helped when I infiltrated the school today. Being alive."

(Rory's shirt. Then Amy's.)

"Yes, there were quite enough dead people about," says Rory. "Though I was a bit more intimidated when you used that plasma-sphere to kill the zombie headmaster."

(Both pairs of trousers.)

"He wasn't a zombie. He was a Jangorian. There's a distinction," Amy says, reasonably.

"I'll remember that," says Rory. "Next time."

Amy nods. "I'll hold you to that."

And they shed the rest of it, socks and underclothes.

Then it's just them.


End file.
